Thoughts on book publishing, editing, contemporary poetry, dementia, administrative memos, and teaching by the editor of Tinfish Press.

Friday, March 20, 2015

51

Had we not wanted we could never have been obliged. A
month of visitations: seated in my red chair, I felt a blur at the
periphery of my left eye. A small gray rat sat in the living room,
his fur sleek and clean. He vanished, like the others. We're obliged
to those we want to see, even when they come in other bodies and
leave again without them. The shells of their bodies litter
our rooms, exposed to the air and us. Crawl inside: they are
camouflage, armored personnel carrier, barrier against all the anger
there is. We enter them like
empire, beholden to what it inhabits. It
takes courage to buy vegetables, to walk down a street, to stand
inside a building. I'm glad
you came, but please don't come again.